


The Little Match Boy

by rainbowwrites



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Hypothermia, I had to let this have some kind of happy ending, Little Match Girl AU, M/M, Mentions of neglect, character death but also not entirely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 19:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16247864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowwrites/pseuds/rainbowwrites
Summary: Prompto Argentum had always gotten by selling matches through the winter. His meagre pay would allow him enough food and heat to live into spring. He had been selling matches for as long as he could remember and it had always worked.Until, at the age of fifteen, it wasn’t enough anymore. People weren’t buying his matches anymore.





	The Little Match Boy

**Author's Note:**

> My piece for the Ever After zine! This was really lovely, also find the companion art piece by the lovely dovaldraws at twitter.com/dovaldraws

Prompto Argentum had always gotten by selling matches through the winter. His meagre pay would allow him enough food and heat to live into spring. He had been selling matches for as long as he could remember and it had always worked.

Until, at the age of fifteen, it wasn’t enough anymore. People weren’t buying his matches anymore.

His parents had abandoned him years ago, leaving him with no one to protect him except himself. He relied entirely on the things he could sell, like the small match boxes he still held on to. He pulled his thin coat tighter around himself, shivering desperately in an attempt for warmth. The winters in Lucis could be cruel. The streets were starting to look like places he didn’t know, even though Prompto had walked them thousands of times before. The snow painted them all the same way and try as he might, Prompto could not pinpoint any landmarks he would usually recognise that told he where he was.

He could hide from the cold for a little while, he thought. He could come back out when there were people around and he could find his way home. His thoughts drifted to the boy with black hair and soft eyes that always took the time to buy matches from him; who always insisted on paying more than the cost. He looked like he came from the better part of the city - he was probably somewhere warm, waiting out the snowstorm. Prompto wished he could be with the boy, not just for the warmth. He always treated Prompto with kindness no one else showed. 

Hidden away in a small alley between houses, only slightly further away from the biting winds than before, Prompto attempted to make himself as small as he could. He knew he shouldn’t touch his merchandise - it was the only means he had to keep himself through the next few weeks - but he was so cold and it was so dark and he was completely alone. Prompto could keep one box of matches for himself, just to get through the night. 

He lit one match, focusing on the way the flame flickered in what remained of the wind and the small heat in his fingers. In its light he could see a small image and he leaned closer not just for the warmth it gave, but to see better. He became mesmerised by what the flame showed him - someone was in a kitchen cooking a meal so wonderful, Prompto couldn’t even imagine how it would taste. He had never seen that much food before. It looked so delicious that Prompto could almost smell it. The other man kept on working, keeping his back to Prompto. 

But he could see the boy with the black hair there, laughing and piling a plate up with what food was on the table. He looked over, as if he was looking right at Prompto, and beckoned him in. He gestured to another plate, telling Prompto it was his. It was his, and he could have as much of the food as he wanted. From the kitchen, the man there took something out of the oven and nodded his agreement, voice accented but kind.

Prompto yelped when he felt a sharp pain in the tips of his fingers, losing the whole scene he had just been a part of when the match dropped and fizzled out in the snow. He wasn’t sure what it was or what it meant - maybe it was nothing but his mind’s desperate attempts to block out the cold, but he wanted it back. Never before had Prompto felt so warm and wanted. He lit another match, a new image replacing the marvellous feast.

He saw a grand hall this time, but despite its intimidating size it felt comfortable. More importantly, it felt like a place where Prompto could be safe. He was sitting in between two people - could just make out voices talking and laughing beside him. Somehow he knew he was part of the conversation and if he just tuned in enough, he could hear them.

There was the boy again - laughing and looking at him, as if Prompto should be laughing too. He couldn’t quite make out the other man next to him; thought that he should be frightened by his size, but that feeling of safety was back again. They both laughed and each time they said Prompto’s name he felt like a part of something. It warmed him in a way no fire ever could.

A sharp wind cut through him and blew the small flame away, taking the laughter and safety with it. Once again, Prompto was alone. At least his hands had stopped shaking, so maybe the weather was finally turning. He thought that he didn’t feel as cold as he had before. 

Prompto looked up in time to see a streak of light dart across the sky. He had heard about shooting stars before - before she left him, his mother had told him they meant someone was dying and their soul going to a better place. He wondered who it was and hoped it was quick for them.

The thought didn’t stay with him as long as it should have - he was finding it difficult to keep focus and wanted to keep that energy for the flames. 

There was no one in the streets, so he would not be able to sell his matches anyway. Prompto lit another, distracting himself from the world by wondering what he would see this time. The room he saw was much more understated - the colours darker and muted, but still cosy. Only the boy with black hair was there this time, looking at Prompto as if he could see through the fire to the boy in the snow. 

He was talking and Prompto tried his hardest to listen, getting closer to the flame as if that would help. It burned out before he could hear what the boy was saying and Prompto rushed with newly shaking fingers to light another, relieved to find the boy still talking to him in the flame. Each time Prompto thought he had gotten close enough to listen, the flames would burn out. Finally, on the fourth match, Prompto could hear him. He sat there, listening to a boy he had only known in passing. Listening to the only person who had ever been kind to him. 

The way the boy spoke to him was almost as if they were good friends. He spoke of all the sorrows Prompto had experienced in life, promising to make everything better for him. Prompto barely acknowledged the tears making warm streaks down his face as he listened to the boy with black hair promise that he would never be cold or hungry or alone again. He choked on his breath when the boy looked at Prompto with sad eyes and almost seemed to reach out to him.

“You’re such a good person, Prompto. You never deserved any of this. You deserve better, and I promise you will have better.”

Prompto made a small sound when the flame finally reached his fingers, burning the skin as others had. In his desperation to hear him again Prompto reached for as many matches as he could, as many as he had left. Thoughts of selling them were completely forgotten as he lit those that remained, one after the other, holding them in his hand as the image grew brighter. The tears kept coming as he listened on, overwhelmed at the love no one had dared give him before.

It was never meant to last - the flames flickered out one by one, until Prompto was once again alone in the alley. But the images and words had warmed him like no fire and he felt the merciful pull of sleep. His body was so heavy that he wouldn’t have been able to find the strength to move even if he wanted to. He thought that he could afford some rest, since all his matches were gone and he had nothing to return to. In rest, he could revisit what the flames had shown him. 

In rest, things would be better.

***

That morning came as morning always had. People went about their business, going to work and running errands while children played in the snow.

A shriek from a small alley broke the harmony.

A woman had found a young boy in the snow while clearing it away. He had blonde hair and fair, freckled skin. His skin was frozen to the touch and there was no life left in him, the cold having taken it all. Scattered around him were used matches. 

Some recognised him as selling them during the winter months. Parents ushered their children away from the scene, all talking amongst themselves about the tragedy of the boy who died during the cold night, how he must have been so desperate for warmth that he turned to his matches. 

What a sad start end to the year it was, that such a young life had been lost. No one had paid the match boy any attention until he was no longer alive to witness it.

Word of the death made it back as far as the palace in the heart of the city, as maids and servants who had been out returned with the news. They tutted between themselves about how the boy looked no older than the young prince and what a shame it was. Winter always claimed lives.

The young prince heard them, talking to each other as they went about their days. The prince, with black hair, thought of the blonde match boy who always smiled brighter than anyone he ever met and always tried to refuse extra money. It was an awful way to go, alone in the cold. Prince Noctis would never have to worry about that, and all he could do was hope that the boy who sold matches had gone somewhere else, where he would never be cold again.

***

Prompto opened his eyes to a clear, blue sky and a blazing sun. He wasn’t sure he had ever felt heat like it. Even the road he lay on was baking under the sun, only barely cool enough for him to lie on, but he sat up all the same before it burned him. 

He looked down at himself and barely recognised what he saw. He seemed older somehow, but that thought was pushed aside quickly enough. His age hadn’t changed enough to concern him deeply, but his clothes looked clean, and well looked after. Nothing hung too loose, body showing signs of all the meals he hadn’t been able to eat. Prompto had never looked so healthy before.

Looking to his side, he could see three men pushing a car on the road. One of them turned to Prompto, walking towards him with a smile on his face. The face may have been slightly older, but Prompto would know the boy with black hair anywhere. 

Noctis. He could put that name to him.

The others from the visions were there too - the one who cooked all that food, and the one that sat and laughed with him. Somewhere, Prompto thought that he knew their names too.

Noctis stood above Prompto, blocking the sun so it formed a halo around him. He offered Prompto a hand.

“You coming, dude? I think we need another pair of hands for this thing,” Prompto took the offered hand, pulling himself to his feet with almost no effort at all. He returned the smile with one of his own.

“Sure thing.”

He took off into a run, laughing as Noctis scrambled to catch up. The others laughed along like he had always been there; like this was normal. Prompto helped them push the car because he was stronger now, and these were his friends, and whether or not he realised it, Noctis had kept his promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Find more gremlin writing antics over at ferreho-writes.tumblr.com


End file.
